Across her granite face,
  They cannot find
  Sight or sentience in stone.

  Yesterday's beauty and joy lie deep
  In sorrow's heart, asleep.

Prison

  I close the book—the story has grown dim,
  The plot confused; the hero fades
  Behind unmeaning words, and over him
  The covers close like window shades
  On empty windows. The watchful room
  Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares
  Into the shadows. The coals are dumb,
  The clock ticks heavily. The chairs
  Wait sullenly for guests who never come.

  Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet
  Plodding into the night
  Carry me down the empty street
  Made hideous with arcs of purple light…
  Inevitably I must return to bed.
  The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks.
  I am their prisoner. I have no more chance
  Of escape, when all is said,
  Than a dying beetle in a box—
  And life, and love,—and death—have gone to France.

The Dream House

  I steal across the sodden floor
       And dead leaves blow about,
  Where once we planned an iron door
       To shut the whole world out;

  I find the hearth, its fires unlit,
       Its ashes cold—Tonight
  Only the stars give warmth to it,
       Only the moon gives light.

  And yonder on our spacious bed
       Fashioned for love and sleep
  The Autumn goldenrod lies dead,
       The maple-leaves lie deep.

III. Studies and Designs

  A Japanese Vase
  (A Design to be Wrought in Metals)

  Five harsh, black birds in shining bronze come crying
  Into a silver sky,
  Piercing and jubilant is the shape of their flying,
  Their beaks are pointed with delight,
  Curved sharply with desire,
  The passionate direction of their flight,
  Clear and high,
  Stretches their bodies taut like humming wire.
  The cold wind blows into angry patterns the jet-bright
  Feathers of their wings,
  Their claws curl loosely, safely, about nothingness,
  They clasp no things.
  Direction and desire they possess
  By which in sharp, unswerving flight they hold
  Across an iron sea to the golden beach
  Whereon lies carrion, their feast. A shore of gold
  That birds wrought on a vase can never reach.

  The Bow Moon
  (A print by Hiroshige)

  From the dawn, Take San,
  Ungathered star,
  Follow me back through night
  Till I recapture
  Evening.

  (The bending hours of darkness
  Sway apart like lilies
  Before the backward-blowing wind.)

  At last,
  Bearing in her mysterious bosom
  Unravished beauty,
  Dark Yesterday rises to view against her silent sky
  Irrevocable… secret…
  Confronting the fantastic dream
  Of an impossible Tomorrow.

  And that frail bridge,
  Delicate, immutable,
  Which rises higher than the moon,
  More everlasting than the fading sky,
  Joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been,
  That bridge were named "Today"
  If I had loved you, Take San,
  If you had loved me.

  An Italian Chest
  (Lorenzo Designs a Bas-Relief)

  Lust is the oldest lion of them all
  And he shall have first place,
  With a malignant growl, satirical,
  To curve in foliations prodigal
  Round and around his face,
  Extending till the echoes interlace
  With Pride and Prudence, two cranes, gaunt and tall.

  Four lesser lions crouch and malign the cranes,
  Cursing and gossiping they shake their manes
  While from their long tongues leak
  Drops of thin venom as they speak.
  The cranes, unmoved, peck grapes and grains
  From a huge cornucopia, which rains
  A plenteous meal from its antique
  Interior (a note quite curiously Greek).

  And nine long serpents twist
  And twine, twist and twine,
  A riotously beautiful design
  Whose elements consist
  Of eloquent spirals, fair and fine,
  Embracing cranes and lions, who exist
  Seemingly free, yet tangled in that living vine.

  And in this chest shall be
  Two cubic meters of space
  Enough to hold all memory
  Of you and me—
  And this shall be the place
  Where silence shall embrace
  Our bodies, and obliterate the trace
  Our souls made on the purity
  Of night…
  Now lock the chest, for we
  Are dead, and lose the key!

The Pedlar

  Hark, people, to the cry
  Of this curious young magician-pedlar
  Seeking a golden bowl!

  He wanders through the city
  Offering useful tin-ware
  For all the ancient metal
  You have left to rust
  In the dim, dusty attic
  Or mouldy cellar
  Of your soul.

  He refuses nothing—
  Rusty nails
  Which may have played their part
  In a crucifixion—
  For ten of these he will give
  A new tin spoon.

  The andirons
  Once guarding hearth-fires of content,
  Now dusty and forgotten
  In an obscure corner,
  He will give for these
  A new tin tea-kettle
  With a wooden handle.

  And for this antique bowl
  Fashioned to hold
  Roses or wine?

  The eyes of the pedlar glisten!
  O woman, if acid reveal
  Gold beneath the tarnished surface
  He will gladly give you
  His hands, his eyes, his soul,
  His young, white body—

  If not,
  A mocking laugh
  And a bright tin sieve
  To hold your wine
  And roses.

Portrait of a Lady in Bed

I. THE COVERLET

  My cowardice
  Covers me safely
  From everything…

  From cold, which makes me yield
  And quietly die
  Beneath the snow;

  From heat, which makes me faint
  Until cool nothingness receives me;

  From hurt, (Seize me, O Lion,
  And I shall die of fright
  Before I feel your teeth!)

  From love,
  Yes, most of all from love.

  How can love touch me?
  Is it not heat,
  Or cold,
  Or a lion?

  My cowardice covers me
  Safely
  From everything!

II. THE PILLOW

  To know you think of me
  Sustains my Spirit
  Through the long night.

  (My thought of you
  Is wine, banishing sleep!)

  Your thoughts of me are feathers,
  Light nothings,
  Drifting, dancing,
  Floating,
  Blown by a breath of fancy
  Away from your sight.

  They would choke